


The Black Widow

by valia67



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-25 03:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13825116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valia67/pseuds/valia67
Summary: Natasha was a dancer, a spy, the Black Widow, a soldier, a child. Despite all those identities, she never really lost sight of her true self, even if people tend to believe the contrary. She is and will remain Natasha. And she will find peace.





	1. A fiery temperament

“ _You can only count on yourself_ ” she thought with mild annoyance. It had already been the third time that her uncle – this drunk and useless man – had forgotten to take her to school. So she put on her сапоги, big boots to prevent her from the cold, along with her thick coat cut to her ankles, and got out by herself. Wrapped up in those heavy clothes, she looked like a mini trapper, ready to hunt down everyone who’d get in her way. But she didn’t think about it like that; she only wanted to go to school, like her mother wished. Although this time, like the three other times, she would arrive half an hour late to class.  
Her feet, even confined within her _sapogi_ , were already cold, sinking down into the ever-white snow. Cristal flakes fell on her nose, melting to the lasting heat of her skin; fortunately, the wind wasn’t blowing like past week. Being used to not asking much, the girl felt content not to endure the frozen wintry squalls. And she still managed to grasp the beauty of this February landscape, frozen in cold and in time; everything was quiet, the snow had swallowed every reminiscent sound. The trees, like solidified lightning bolts, were bending under their white mantle; and the sky was of a unique color, a light and peaceful grey, which seemed to call on thought. And that’s what she did: she thought.

  
She thought about the class she was going to miss first; a shame, really, because in all modesty, she was an excellent student. She liked almost every subject with the same intensity, even if she had a soft spot for history; she found fascinating the way humans evolved, how they revived after wars, how some of them were fighters, some chiefs, some poor, some rich. She was one of those who believed in the circularity of time, which led her to her first conclusions: history repeats itself, but not really. At her age, it was already a great discovery.  
Then, she thought about her parents, God knows why; she refrained herself from tearing up, certain that she could handle it without a single tear. And if she cried in front of the class, it would be the greatest shame she would know. So she held back her tears, rubbed her face and kept on walking.

She had already arrived at school. The little girl hurried up, took off her sapogi in the corridor to put on grey slippers, did the same with her coat, and knocked on the door. When it opened, the first thing that welcomed her was a little slap on the cheek.

 

***

  
“Natasha!” the teacher loudly called out for the little girl.

  
She went to her, head down, but not too much. She knew she had to respect her elders, but it wasn’t her fault this time. Like the three other times.

  
“Yes, Professor?”

  
“Why were you late again this morning?”

  
“It’s my uncle, Professor” Natasha said. “He got wasted and forgot to wake up to take me to school.”

  
She received another slap.

  
“Don’t talk like a rascal” the teacher reproached. She then softened a little. “Can’t someone else take you to school? Do you live that far away?”

  
“My aunt works early in the morning. My uncle is stupid. And I’d rather save money to buy snacks than to buy a bus ticket.” She felt like she shouldn’t have said the last part.

  
“Natasha, I know you are in a difficult situation, but you must not be that insolent. And I’ll excuse you as long as it’s your uncle’s fault, but if you lie to me, you’ll get punished.” The teacher threatened.

  
“I never lie” the girl said. “And I love school. I just have a stupid uncle.”

  
The teacher sighed, seeing that this discussion was a dead-end. Instead, she changed the subject before class started again.  
“Maybe you should try having a hobby outside of school” the professor added. “You would think about something else than your family. Didn’t you tell me that you liked to dance?”

 

***

  
“ _Один! Два! Три! Четыре!_ ”

  
The words echoed in the classroom. Simultaneously, twenty lean silhouettes followed the music, stretching their legs while being completely composed in their pale pink tutu.

  
“ _Piat! Chest! Siem! Vosiem!_ ”

  
This time, they turned around altogether, like twenty little ceramic figures. The big mirrors stuck on the walls reflected their effort, multiplying their number in an imaginary classroom.

  
“ _Adin! Dva! Tri! Tchiterie!_ ”

  
Natasha followed the rhythm with focus. She turned around, moved her feet in the most measured way, her arms strictly tensed up in a circle gesture and facing her chest. Then, she threw her leg vigorously in the air, kicking an invisible enemy.

  
“Natalia!” The teacher said. “This is a ballet course. Not a taekwondo one. Be gentler, but stay focused.”

  
Natasha nodded her head without a word, and worked on her movements. She had learnt to shut her mouth when she had to. She had learnt to respect and take into account what her elders told her, especially now that she was 15 years old. If people told her what to do, it was only for her own good; they knew better how to improve everything she did. Which is why she kept her lips sealed when the dance teacher got up close to violently straighten her back. Afterwards, while showering with the other girls, she kept on massaging her aching shoulders and back as the water ran down her porcelain skin.

  
***


	2. A dancer

“Iolotchka! I’m home!” Natasha yelled when she walked through the doorstep, hoping her aunt would hear the joy in her crystalline voice. She threw off her scarf and her boots and stormed into the living room, greeted by the familiar faded green wallpaper. There, slumped on the _divan,_ her aunt applied a gauze compress on her face. Natasha just had the time to see her uncle lackadaisically leave the room, lurching and staggering because of the liquor he so-often drank. The girl walked up to the dark-haired middle-aged woman, and quietly kneeled in front of her; she took the hand that held on the compress.

 

“Iolotchka, show me” Natasha said. She forced her aunt’s hand away from her cheek.

 

“It’s nothing, Natachenka. What did you want to tell me?” Elena fondly said. “Did your dance course go well today?”

 

“Don’t change the subject, _tiotia_. Show your cheek.”

 

Reluctantly, Elena turned her head to reveal the purplish bruised side of her face. Natasha stroked it, and moved backward.

 

“How did it happen?”

 

“You don’t have to worry about me, Tasha. It was my fault, I got carried away when I spoke to him about his job. I shouldn’t have been that harsh.”

 

“You had _every right_ to be that harsh. Your husband, my uncle, is a useless drunk man who’s unable to face his responsibilities. And the only way he can regain the appearance of authority is by beating up his wife.” Natasha hissed.

 

“Don’t you dare say that!” Elena barked. “He took you under his wing the same way I did. He remains my husband and I forbid you to speak badly about your family. Aren’t you thankful for what he did? How much he worked so we could afford living here?” she kept on, visibly tearing up.

 

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. But it didn’t last long.

 

“You need to stop finding him excuses. It’ll get you killed one day.”

 

“How could you imagine that? Do you really hate him that much that you think he’ll kill me? Sometimes, you’re the one who’s responsible. Sometimes, it’s your fault. You can’t just throw a tantrum on everybody and think yourself superior, Natasha! How many times did I tell you this?” the aunt spluttered, heavy tears forming up in her eyes.

 

The young girl got up, letting go of her aunt’s hand. She watched her with a feeling of pity, heartbreak and rage. She felt ill at ease in this place, in those rooms with faded green wallpaper, with those people who praised sincerity, but always played another role. Of course she didn’t feel superior to anyone; but she was certain she had this authenticity, deep in her, that no one could take away from her. She felt like she watched the world she lived in from an exterior window. She belonged somewhere else.

 

“I’m sorry, Iolotchka” the young girl said. “I wanted to tell you, my dance teacher enrolled me in a ballet that takes place at the end of the year. You’re most welcome to come. Also, I’ll be living at the school dorm from now on. It’s the counterparty for my intense participation and my good grades.” She made a pause.

 

“Natachenka… I’m… so glad you’re doing well in school, but do you really need to live there from now on?” Elena pleaded. “You’re only fifteen!”

 

“Well, the conversation we just had is in keeping with my decision, isn’t it?”

 

“Don’t play smart, Tasha. You know damn well that you won’t have the luxury of a TV, or a different meal every day!”

 

“I’m wildly aware of this, but I guess it’s better than coming home to a war scene. Or a hurt aunt. If you can handle it, I, on the other hand, cannot. And I won’t. Also, I don’t want to be a burden anymore. You’ll be way happier without me, I guess.” The girl stated, her eyes fleeing from one side of the room to another.

 

Elena couldn’t retain her tears anymore. “Both of you are driving me crazy…” she said between two sniffs into her tissue, before adding, “Larissa would have never wanted this…”

 

Hearing her deceased mother’s name, Natasha felt her eyes watering. But like she always did before, she refrained her tears.

 

“It’s for you that I’m doing this, Iolothcka. I’ll keep on seeing you. I’ll be barely 10 km away from you.”

 

And she went to her bedroom without adding another word.

 

***

 

            “Has someone seen my slippers?” Natasha yelled in the turmoil of the backstage corridor. Young girls were running everywhere, pushing each other while looking for accessories, ribbons, partners. It was like a swirl of tutus, blonde hair and dim yellow lights, throwing warm colors in the young girl’s field of view. She caught a brown-haired girl’s frail arm, interrupting her race.

 

“Ekaterina, have you seen my slippers? You know, the beige ones that I always wear?” she asked in a breath.

 

“No Tasha, sorry, I gotta go, it’s my turn!”

 

Natasha searched every corner of the training rooms, the corridors, the hallways. Her blonde strands of hair were starting to escape from her tidy bun. The teacher would be furious if she didn’t find them.

Then, in one bright flashback, she remembered lending her slippers to a girl named Nadejda; and she used to train in the room in the building’s other wing. She ran as fast as she could, pushing aside anything that got in her way, hearing the teacher call out for her, and got where she wanted to. Bursting open the door, she caught a glimpse of the ballet worn out slippers, thrown in a corner like vulgar waste. Natasha held back her boiling anger, violently grasped the slippers and went back to the stage.

She wasn’t done running back that it was her turn to dance. She calmed her beating heart, controlled her breathing, and acted as poised as ever. The white light flashed in her greenish eyes, contrasting with the deep black beyond the scene. Obviously, Natasha couldn’t see if Iolotchka was still attending to her galas. So she danced flawlessly as if the entire world was watching her.

 _You can only count on yourself_ , she thought again.

***

 

“Many have seen your performance at the gala, including the _komsomolkas_ ” the dance teacher told Natasha during a little break. “You are all very talented, but you have this… energy that many notice. I take credit for it, since I trained you so well.”

 

“You can” the young girl answered, even though she prided herself in the fact that people had seen her talent. “But I still have a lot to learn.”

 

“It’s undeniable. That being said, I’ve been contacted by the leader of Novossibirsk’s Komsomol, and he’d like a few of my best dancers to come with him. He plans on taking you to the Bolshoi.”

 

Natasha couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Among all of the school’s prettiest girls, she had been chosen! It was her chance, and she had to seize it. Soon she would be training at the Bolshoi, along with the best dancers in all Russia!

 

“When do I leave?” she exclaimed enthusiastically.

***

 

Moscow was nothing like Novossibirsk. Sure, the latter was already a huge town, but this was something else. Inside from the bus, looking through the greyish and dusty windows, Natasha discerned Saint Basil’s cathedral, its brick-red structure that belonged to the Red Square; before that, she even recognized the Arbat neighborhood, full of history. Finally, she saw the Bolshoi, with its long marble columns, its ocher bricks, overlooked by its copper horses statues and graceful sculptures engraved in stone.

The inside was just as majestic as the outside. And the afternoon went on like in a dream, in which Natasha, who started out so miserable, finally felt like a princess. Along with the other girls, they watched professional dancers, and they later trained in a classroom made for the best. Because that’s what they were going to be: the _best_.

            One week later, Natasha was exhausted. Fascinated, but exhausted. It was like in Novossibirsk, but longer, harder, and more serious.

 

“ _Adin! Dva! Tri! Tchiterie!”_

 

She proceeded to follow the music, muscles aching like frayed ropes, sweat forming on her forehead. Despite stuffing cotton wool inside her slippers, her feet were burning. Suddenly, she felt too rigid, too heavy. She was slowing down.

 

“ _Ты_ _!_ _Романова_!” a voice hollered. Natasha jerked up her head, eyes widening. “Follow the rhythm. Tense up.”

 

She proceeded to give everything she had left in the next movement; she kicked an invisible enemy.

The teacher stopped the music, moved towards the girl, and looked at her, top to bottom.

 

“You’re not slim enough. This won’t do. You have to leave.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's a bit blurry, but I promise, the story will be more structured in the following chapters...


	3. A spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are many OCs in this excerpt because I chose to create kind of a new backstory...

It was dark and gloomy. The neon lights danced on the ceiling, blinking at the same speed as Natasha’s eyelashes. She was in a state of half-denial, half-fear; engulfed in the stretcher’s mattress, clamped by big leather straps, she wondered one last time what had led her to this. She wanted to be rational, to reason herself; but right now, she was petrified with terror.

“It’ll only last 20 seconds, it’s not that long” a voice shot in the dark. “Just take a big breath, clench your teeth and everything will be alright.”

 _No._ Nothing was alright. Nothing about this was ever gonna be alright. But Natasha had made a choice. So much had happened since the incident at the Bolshoi, which referred to the day she was tossed out of the theater, like a vulgar piece of cloth. She looked on her left to see the wallpaper, decaying, crumbling. But the people were pushing the stretcher so fast that her eyes couldn’t even follow it.

One week after being thrown out of the Bolshoi, Natasha had learnt that Iolotchka died. Brain concussion, resulting from a brutal fall down the stairs. Natasha knew exactly what happened. But she was too weak at the moment to do something. Nonetheless, when she’s strong enough, she would make him pay.

The stretcher finally stopped. The girl was terribly cold, only wearing the white medical tunic they had given her. She felt her eyes pulsing in their sockets, as if her heart was beating in her brain. Everything was going way too fast. Then, a man approached her softly. She recognized his sharp features, his brown hair, and his aquiline nose. _Aleksei_ , _the team’s doctor_.

“A…leksei?” she asked with difficulty.

“Hello, Natalia. I’m glad to see that you didn’t forget me.” He said with a reassuring voice. “How was the funeral?”

Natasha didn’t answer.

“Never mind” he pursued. “So, how are you feeling?”

“Great… Obviously…” she answered with a voice rough from coughing. Aleksei chuckled and shook his head.

“At least the medicine didn’t make you lose your sarcasm” he playfully said. “If you’re good now, you’re halfway there.”

“M’not sure I wanna be fullway there anymore” she muttered.

Aleksei bent so his face was closer to Natasha’s. His eyes expressed nothing.

“Natasha, you _agreed_ to do this. I can give you the paper. Even though I believe your true motivation was… you know. Your precedent failure.”

Natasha felt her blood boil into her veins. If she had any strength left, she would punch this asshole in the jaw. But she was powerless. And that’s why she came here.

“If you want to be the _very best_ , then you’ll let us do our job. Remember, you’re part of a project that selects the best among you all. Of course, we already have your signature, which I suppose implies your subordination. But I expect you to be compliant, you know? It’ll only make things easier for both of us” Aleksei concluded.

“They already told me th at I’d be the best… Hope you keep your promises this time” the girl said.

“Doctor, the others are waiting” a nurse whispered to Aleksei. He nodded his head and assured. “You’ll be among the best, Natalia. Now take her to the transfusion nursing room.”

And the stretcher started to move forward again, until she joined the other girls. They were all lying down on the same type of mattress as her, tubes containing a blue substance transfused in their arms. They were all asleep, but even in their deep artificial slumber, they winced because of the pain.

Natasha’s stretcher stopped just beside a dark-haired girl, with long eyelashes and freckles. She looked intensely at her… colleague…? Friend…? And tried to reason herself one last time. She looked above her shoulders frankly, gathering information about this place, those girls, looking at the walls, the machines, the lack of windows… And her head was put in place by the nurse. Like a motionless and emotionless individual, she pushed under her skin a first syringe, making Natasha moan because of the pain. Then, she took the needle connected to the blue substance and repeated the same painful gesture. Natasha blinked a hundred times, breathed erratically; her mind went blank. She saw the cyan liquid coming up to the needle, and finally leaching into her body. At that moment, she only thought about surviving. Then everything faded to black.

 

***

 

 

“ _Adin! Dva! Tri! Tchiterie!_ Tense up, Romanov! There’s four of them!”

Indeed, four enemies were on her. Hurtling towards her silhouette with inhuman speed, the four men surrounded Natasha and started to throw their fists and legs on her with only one purpose: defeat her. She avoided the first punch gracefully to hammer with her elbow an unknown stomach; she simultaneously projected her leg backward, her feet striking a kneecap. The girl turned around like a ballerina, pulling off another blow with her leg, punching the same man in his torso. Another one closed his muscled arms on her neck, like metal claws, preventing her from breathing right. Clenching her teeth, she gathered her strength to tilt her head down first, and then yanked it back as hard as she could, ramming her opponent’s chin. She then proceeded to throw her entire lower body in the air and used her weight to force the man into the ground. Freed from this potentially deadly embrace, she grasped a knife that was hidden inside her sports pants, near the ankle. The remaining man did the same, hands tight on the small but dangerous blade.

The two of them delivered a battle of rapid dodges, skilled killer hands and sharp attacks. They were so fast that the teacher hadn’t had the time to intervene, or at least precise something.

“No knife allowed!” the twangy voice resonated. “Just use your body. That’s your only weapon.”

Natasha threw away the knife. The man did the same. He then darted on her.

When he got close enough, she sent her tightened arm in his face to knock him out for a moment. During the brief second of calm she was granted, she clutched his shirt, sent up her leg to chock it on the man’s shoulder, used again her weight to wrap herself around his neck, locked her knee below his face, and turned her whole upper body in a circular gesture. The move led to the fall of the opponent, unable to resist once his center of gravity shifted. He collapsed on the cold floor, while Natasha landed on her feet clumsily.

She was _extremely_ satisfied of herself. This was her own move, inherited from ballet, that was going to make her unassailable. But as she allowed herself one moment of pride, she received a powerful blow in her legs that swept her off the ground. She brutally fell as the other man - _the one she had forgotten about, the fourth one_ \- put his foot on her shoulder and looked at the teacher.

 

“I remember telling you _four_ , not three, Romanov. You can try every smart move you know, if you’re unable to count to four, you’ll be dead in a second,” the teacher asserted. “It’s over for now. In one hour, you’ll train for shooting.”

The man who played the role of the opponent lifted his foot and freed Natasha, lying still on the floor, panting. At least, she was now skilled enough to execute the move she had been working on, and that was the positive point she decided to focus on for the rest of the day.

 

***

 

            Natasha stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror. Muzzy traces on the glass made her face look blurry in some parts, and the dirt on it punctuated her features with brownish spots. The pallid light projected sharp shadows upon her bone structure, exacerbating her pale skin. Her greenish eyes, inherited from her mother, were underlined by purple circles, as if her veins had popped up below that porcelain skin. They were cracking, like cyan lightning bolts under a white sheeting. The intensity of the light almost erased the bruise that stained her face, like a blank canvas only troubled by blue paint. Finally, she studied the blonde strands of hair stuck on her forehead because of the sweat, falling on her shoulders.

This reflection was not who she was. Or at least this was not what she wanted to look like. In honor of her first mission alone out of the Room, she would have to be efficient, and that was only possible through physical transformation. After all, she had to infiltrate networks, groups of criminals, _normal people forms of organization_. So she ripped off the plastic opening of the sachet, prepared the mixture, which turned to carmine. Natasha then applied it on her hair, painting one by one her blonde strands, soon turning as red as blood.

One hour later, a cap jammed hard on her head, she came out of the motorway area, heading towards the car. The sky was of a dirty grey and the air was heavy, as if a lead blanket covered the small building next to the highway. Parked cars of multiple colors were the only things that brought some artificial shades on the background that was the concrete parking lot, Natasha’s silhouette cut on the grey cement. The driver inside the car pushed open the passenger’s door, as if he was irritated she took so long. Natasha could catch a glimpse of his brown hair.

“What the fuck were you doing back there? I’ve been waiting here for an hour! What if there had been a change in the plan? Huh? Do you think about others than yourself, occasionally?”

“Shut up, Sacha” she answered flatly while getting inside the car. “I had important business to do.”

She pointed at the red flyaway locks escaping from her grey cap.

“You’re telling me you took a whole fucking hour to dye your hair when we’re busy tracking someone?” Sacha fulminated.

“Yeah” she let out while chewing on gum. “Now drive, she’s getting to her car.”

“I swear to God, Romanov, I’m never working with you again. We could have lost her a hundred times while you were roleplaying a fucking hairdresser,” the guy hissed as he turned the keys and started the engine.

“Will you let me talk for a second instead of leaping to conclusions?” Natasha asked.

“Well, go ahead, enlighten me.”

“Where do you go when you’re a woman and need to use a sink?”

“Don’t fucking play with me, go straight to the point” Sasha interrupted as annoyed as before.

“I put a tracker inside her bag so we know exactly where she is. The info is on a dematerialized map inside my phone” she deadpanned.

Sacha remained silent for a second, eyes focused on the road. Then he turned to Natasha.

“Not bad, I guess.”

“Now shut up and drive.”


	4. A plan

 

            A man walked nonchalantly the grey plastic corridors, scratching his head in disbelief. He adjusted one last time the little prosthetic in his ear, and proceeded to reach a glass door that displayed a white engraved symbol: an eagle. That was so cliché, though. An _eagle_. No wonder that the Iraqis had known they were American only by gazing upon the cars. But maybe, it was, like… a strategy? You know, _we’re Americans, so don’t try any shit, yo_. Had proved itself successful on many occasions. Maybe.

“Get in!” a firm but poised voice said.

“Yup” he answered, pushing open the door. He then stopped, standing guard, facing a big desk. He detailed his superior’s face: not happy, obviously, but as calm as usual.

“You know why I called you here?” he inquired, resting his chin on his interlocked hands. He wore a white bandage around his head and on his eye, contrasting with the darkness of his skin.

“I guess it’s not for Bregovitch’s extradition? Cuz he’s… dead.”

“I applaud your sense of humor, truly, Mr. Barton” the superior said. “Hope it conceals true genius and efficiency in work.”

“Well, you tell me, Mr. Fury” Barton said, ruffling his dirty blonde hair.

“ _Anyway_ , as you may well know, the USSR is crumbling to pieces. And I don’t say that because I despise their system, a thing that I should do because I’m American; our system has flaws too. Nonetheless, communism hasn’t been viable for now a decade. There had been consequent breaches before, but they had always been exploited and hidden to the population. But as everything goes to shit, they still try to keep up the appearances, and they don’t stop sending infiltrated agents meant to gather intel, study firm competition and assassinate well-known defectors.”

“So… _spies_. Shocking.”

“Quiet, Barton.” Fury shot. “What I’m trying to tell you is that you’ve already worked on extraditing defectors, and you’re relatively abled in the spying field.”

“Relatively?”

“I want you to track someone that has recently become a person of interest” Fury continued, “and you’ll dispose of a swat team for cavalier brawn.”

“Let me guess… Daria Korolieva?”

“Right on the mark. So I don’t need to brief you about her situation right now?”

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, she is a citizen of USSR, born in Rostov-on-Don. Now she must be… 36, previously engineer in thermonuclear fusion. She was sent to Boston to study nuclear armament, and defected right before getting on the plane back. Of course, she was helped by the FBI and the CIA on the spot. And she has lived in America for… 3 years now? And today she’s a teacher and a researcher at Boston University. Actively keeping a track of her, because she’s targeted by the KGB.”

“Yes. But the thing is, she’s on _vacation_ for now, and her location indicates that she won’t stop moving across America. Unless she developed a passion for road-trips, you understand that we went to take a closer look.” Fury said. “Plus, she’s married now and has a child. So, it’s even more odd that she would choose such a moment to discover the countryside.”

Barton glared at Fury, his greyish eyes expressing focus and his brows furrowed. “You think she knows she’s being followed? So she tries to get rid of them?”

“Except that she won’t be able to” Fury asserted, “And I’m sure she’s aware of that. So it’s even more curious. Which is why I have a theory: she’s desperately trying to draw attention on her because she knows she’ll be unable to fight back if KGB finds her. But one thing upsets me; if they really wanted to pressure her, they would have threatened her family. Thus, it may not be KGB.”

Barton was even more confused. “You’re telling me USSR has other security agencies, that proceed differently?”

“You know what?” The man asked rhetorically. “I can’t see clearly through this case. It smells _really_ bad. I told you my point of view, but I could be completely wrong. Proof is, I don’t know how to explain the reasons of Korolieva’s sudden trip.”

Fury got up, leaning against the white desk. “Thus, I want you to bring me answers and to thwart any kind of threats Mrs. Korolieva could be submitted to. She’s a thermonuclear engineer, which means she’s a vital piece in the nuclear armament game that’s taking place in the world. Keep in mind that Iran wants the H bomb, and to say that they don’t like us would be an offensive euphemism.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Fury.”

“You have a car at your disposal outside. Six field agents will be accompanying you. We’ll be broadcasting Korolieva’s location every hour. I want her alive at the end of this mission, and whatever is tailing her, or you, I want it dead.” Fury commanded.

There was an ominous atmosphere, and Clint Barton was deeply aware of that; something about this new case wasn’t right. Especially, something was _new_. And new meant unknown.

 

***

 

“She turned left,” Natasha observed. “She’s heading towards a hotel.”

“Thanks, did not see that through the perfectly transparent windshield in front of my eyes,” Sasha retorted, as snarky as ever. He then proceeded to steer the wheel to the left, driving into a street.

“I’m just trying to help you, no need to be an asshole.”

“Well, for now, you didn’t really help me, you rather slowed us down, with your hair bullshit and so on!” The brown-haired man nagged at Natasha as if she was 8-year-old. “Next time, don’t act by yourself, and warn be before you choose to fuckin- “

He did not have the time to finish his sentence that the red-headed girl threw her hand at him, in a gesture that demanded him to shut up.

“What the”

“Keep on driving.” She growled. Her cap still jammed on her head, she watched carefully the rear-view mirror. The car behind them turned right.

“We’re being trailed?”

“M’not sure, but one is never too careful. I let them see me with blonde hair, so by my calculations, it should take them a day to find us. But if we stick to the plan, we’re good for 3 days.”

“And I hope you’ll take care of them since it’s all your fault,” Sasha objected. “If it goes sour, I’ll take Korolieva and you distract them.”

Natasha said nothing. It didn’t last long.

“There, she parked to the left. She’s heading towards _The Leopard_. And for the record, without this _bullshit_ of mine, we would have had a hard time to find her. So cut the bullshit. Your bullshit.” Natasha shot, always calm.

 

            The plan was to fake a newlywed couple that planned to discover the American countryside, stopping by Charleston. Obviously, Natasha had to play the obedient wife. She wondered if there wasn’t a part of male fantasy in those infiltration plans. Anyway, she and Sasha arrived in the hall, rented a room two doors from Korolieva’s. They put microphones on the walls and managed to plug a recorder inside the engineer’s room. Step by step, methodically, just like they were taught to do, they weaved a spider web around the victim. Their goal was to know what kind of info about governmental structures and secrets she spilt, and if it was compromising, to get rid of her. But since SHIELD was under UN’s banner, it was more and more difficult to act freely; it was provided with cutting-edge technology and brand-new armament. And it juridically acted _in the name of the greater good_ , thus beneficiating of a better image than fricking KGB. But Natasha knew damn well that their goals were similar, and their methods too. It was just a matter of public opinion manipulation, and Americans excelled in it.

           


	5. A murder

 

            Daria Korolieva sat in the lounge; it was a nice room, softly lit up with big cream-colored sofas. She held onto a phone of the latest technology, unusual at this time. A man was seated at the bar, brown-hair slightly slicked, wearing a blue shirt underneath a leather jacket. Finishing his whisky in a sip, he got up to join her.

“Enjoying the benefits of technology?” he asked Daria with a smile.

She jumped as the man got closer. She looked anything but calm, blue eyes bewildered, her mouth ajar, and under-eye dark circles visible. She tried to crack a smile, but her nervousness was showing up.

“Ah, yeah, I… love this kind of stuff.”

“Me too, except that I’m not smart enough to actually conceive anything…” he answered.

Daria seemed torn between acting normal and not lowering her guard, obviously aware of the fact that she may be trailed. But she chose to behave without arousing suspicion, answering the man. Who was no one else but Sasha.

“Well, you must be good at something else…” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.” She then proceeded to get up and walk by Sasha. He caught her arm instantly.

“Are you alright?!” he exclaimed loudly enough so that the few people in the room could hear him. “You seem a bit off. Sit down…” And without her consent, his hand still grasping her arm, he forced her on the sofa. She was looking at him as if her whole world had crumbled to pieces, eyes wide open, trembling like a leaf. He took the chair facing the sofa, glaring at Korolieva; he then stroked her arm continuously, in a reassuring gesture.

“Are you okay?”

Daria remained silent, eyes flickering between the man’s hand on her arm and his face. She didn’t know for sure that she was facing a spy, but at the same time, her interlocutor had an ominous aura around him.

“I’m… just tired… But I can handle this. I gotta go…”

Sasha displayed his badge, on which was drawn the CIA logo. He got closer to Korolieva, until she could hear only his whispers.

“Listen, I’ve been following you since you got inside that hotel. You know that ever since you chose to flee that plane, the CIA and the FBI have been watching you. But if we’re taking action right now, and risking our cover in broad daylight, it’s only because you’re in danger. Or at least tracked.”

Daria was completely lost; she didn’t know what to do. But at the same time, she felt relieved that her plan kind of worked. Although, she couldn’t trust anyone.

“What are you offering me?” she inquired.

“Protection. But first, we need to settle things and clarify what they know and what they don’t. And that depends on what _you_ know.” Sasha said.

“So, I’m actually in danger?” Daria asked, trembling. “And what about my husband? My daughter? My colleagues?”

“They’re fine, for what we know. We got agents at your house and your workplace. And, yes, we noticed people following you. Sooner or later, if we do nothing, you’ll get acquainted with them. And I’m not sure this is something you want to happen.” He threatened.

Daria was prey to a dilemma. She still couldn’t trust anyone. But in any case, she was exposed.

“What should I do?”

“We can’t talk here” Sasha asserted. “You’ll meet me and my colleague tonight, she’s a red-head, you’ll notice her. Let’s meet in our room: N° 124, at 6. It’s a safe place, freed from microphones and all that stuff they must have plugged you with. For now, remain in your room, and don’t talk to anyone, not even the hotel staff.”

***

“Agent Barton to Central Unit, arriving at Charleston, we need a more precise location.”

The car was roaming through the streets, grey bodywork reflecting the sunrays, other cars following the same path one or two streets further. They soon got the hotel’s address, and Clint stopped the car on a small parking lot three blocks away.

He then entered the building, dressed in black cargo pants, green sweater and brown leather jacket, his dark blonde hair tousled and wearing a beige band aid on his cheek, his trademark. Looking exhausted and chewing on a lollipop, he booked a room that has been mysteriously freed one minute ago.

“Room 126, sir.”

“Thank you, my good sir.” He flatly said. “Do you organize, like, tea dances? Karaokes? Themed evenings?”

“Erm… we’re just a hotel, sir, it’s up to you to… organize tea dances.”

“Alright, alright, alright.” He concluded. “Thanks, anyway! Have a good day.”

He then got outside, faking to smoke a cigarette, turning on his earpiece. “You all wait inside the car, I’ll keep you informed of the situation.”

***

            Daria closed the door of her room, and walked the corridor covered by a blue carpet. She stopped in front of room 124, apprehending to knock on the door. She didn’t have to; the door opened to reveal a young woman, wearing a kaki t-shirt and jeans, dark red hair tied up in a ponytail.

“I came to…”

“Korolieva, I know. Get inside.”

She went inside. Sasha was in the room as well. He approached her.

“Did anyone follow you? Have you spoken to anybody since our encounter?”

“No, I remained cloistered in my room, as you demanded it. I spoke to no one, I swear.”

“So, what have you communicated on thermonuclear armament for 3 years? We need to know.”

Daria looked down, and faced Sasha.

“I just held classes, and of course I’ve been approached by people like you before. I only communicated my recent work to scientific cell in MIT, and that’s all.”

Sasha and Natasha looked at each other.

“The reason I went away…” she pursued, “is that my office had been vandalized one night. I knew that if it was KGB, I couldn’t do anything except call the FBI. But I guess they got it all wrong, because I keep my work private.”

“Are you sure you told us everything?” Natasha said.

“Yes, for God’s sake, I have a child, a husband, I’d never risk their lives for nothing!” Daria exclaimed.

Sasha paced in the room.

“So there’s nothing else you can tell us about thermonuclear armament?” he wondered.

“No, I just want you to protect my family, the people I love. I have no interest in playing spy” She said, tears forming in her eyes.

Sasha took a bracelet he was wearing, fidgeting with it. Natasha looked at him carefully.

“What about James Cosner, though?”

Hearing those words, Korolieva froze, petrified by astonishment and unable to hide it.

“H-How do you…”

“Told you, Mrs Korolieva, you can’t lie to us. That’s a bad choice. Now tell us about Cosner and what it entailed.” Sasha threatened.

“It was the only way for me to keep my job at the university! I’ve been granted American citizenship only because the government knew it would squeeze something out of me” Daria exclaimed. “James Cosner made me understand that I should tell him about the _Zvezda Proiekt_. But I knew nothing. It was not my department. I only knew about my field, thermonuclear weapons, and Americans already know everything there is to know about it.” She concluded. “So he left me alone, and I still had my office destroyed. Which is why I want answers and protection.”

            Natasha had been frozen at Korolieva’s words too. _Звезда_ _Проект_ , this project, these were the forbidden words. Even if she knew absolutely nothing about it, the sole fact to be aware of its very existence, and even worse, _to know its name_ , meant that it was over. She had been taught this. But she also had seen many innocent people die because of this project.

“You know about the _Zvezda Proiekt?_ ” Sasha asked heavily.

“I barely know it exists! I’m not even sure it’s functional.” Daria protested.

Natasha was glaring at her colleague. Daria was looking for comfort in her. And suddenly, she was struck by realization. Her head turned to Natasha and Sasha hectically.

“The… the way you pronounced it…”

She was only greeted by silence.

“ _Что вы знаете о Проекте Звезда_? ” He asked again.

“You’re KGB” she said, one tear falling off on her cheek.

“Sasha, she doesn’t know anything” Natasha shot.

“You _shut the hell up_ , kiddo.” Sasha spat. In one quick gesture, he took out a silencer.

He shot Daria in the head.

The woman stood for a second, only supported by her tense muscles, to then collapse to the ground in a loud thump. Natasha roared “What the _fuck_ , Sasha, she was telling the truth!”

“ _You. Shut. Up._ ” Sasha growled, boiling with rage. “You’re as useless as the others. The only thing you do is slow us down or getting us tracked because you can’t behave like a _fucking_ spy for _one goddamn second_. You know the orders, don’t you? Or did the brainwashing not work on you?”

Natasha remained silent, but it didn’t last long. Yes, it was the orders, but Sasha followed them blindly. Daria’s death could be problematic in their plan. He needed to get the bigger picture. And she felt oddly disturbed by the woman’s death. She felt… _injustice_.

“Yeah, well at least they taught me to execute my work and make it clean! You just shot a woman in a hotel room in the middle of a city, and I’m pretty sure SHIELD is after us!” she hollered.

As she ranted about her interlocutor’s carelessness, she observed him getting dressed up, packing stuff.

“What are you doing?”

He said nothing.

“Answer me, ебаная пизда.”

Sasha freezed, deigning to answer. He got confident all of a sudden.

“Look at what we have. One trained KGB agent, and a new recruit, who came from nowhere, part of the _Zvezda Proiekt_ but still affected by _sentiments_. Nobody trusts you in KGB as much as they trust me, even if you have proved yourself efficient on many occasions.”

He paced around Natasha like a lion turns around his prey.

“Our plan was to find Korolieva and discover what she knew, and therefore what the American government knew. This project was the line nobody should have crossed. Korolieva’s dead. But I’m deciding who killed her.”

Natasha was focused on him, every inch of her body tensed up.

“Was it one obedient agent that sacrificed a life for the country, but risking SHIELD and the CIA to find us? Or was it… some unstable young spy, a _woman_ , easy prey to pressure and feelings?” He said, smiling.

“You’d blame me for the murder you committed? When KGB knows that people like me kill without concern?”

“You know, you still have that bruise on your forehead, Tasha.” He continued. “If I’m not mistaken, you got it by beating the crap out of four security guards that caught you inside Korolieva’s lab. Which eventually led to the destruction of our first cover and you dying your damn hair.” He concluded.

“Still angry about that, I see” Natasha sassed.

“You can fuck around all you want for the sake of the mission, but our superiors don’t miss a single move we make. And I’ve been told you’re a rather _free electron_.”

Natasha landed a punch in his arm that made him drop the silencer. She turned around to strike with her elbow, but Sasha dodged it, grasping her arm, and sliding his arm under her chin, he chocked her from behind. At the same time, a mechanical sound warned of the elevator’s moving, and Sasha was pretty sure that SHIELD was on its way. He would have to be quick. But KGB wouldn’t mind if he damaged one of their precious little dolls. Especially if she was already cracked.

But the doll retaliated: after stomping on the man’s foot, she headbutted him, hearing a cracking sound in his nose. She then threw her legs in the air, lifting her entire weight, to send Sasha reeling on the floor. She coughed and kept on massaging her neck, reddened from the pressure. But as Sasha was holding his bleeding nose, she sent a kick in his shin, and turned around on the ground to project her legs in his ribcage. Sasha avoided another kick by resting on his palms, his back curved, biceps stretched to support his weight, and pushed himself back in a standing position in a jump. Hastening to his prey -or who he considered a prey- he constantly sent punches in a fight as fast as lightning, and Natasha kept on doing the same. In a brief moment of inattention, Sasha managed to pin the red-haired girl to a wall, pressing again her neck with his arm. The mirror behind them fell due to the shock’s violence, shattering on the ground. Trying to get a hold on the furniture in order not to suffocate, Natasha kept on striking her opponent with her knee. Sasha, still showing off, whispered in a breath a few words that made Natasha’s blood boil.

“Too bad you’re gonna die, I was hoping to do something else with you in a bedroom like this” he muttered, a smug smile on his bleeding face.

Natasha had never liked Sasha, but in this very moment, only his violent death would bring her sheer pleasure. She thus took advantage of him letting his guard down to punch him deeply in the ribs; he let her fall on the desk. Standing on it, she kicked him in the chest with all the strength she had left, and God knows she had some. Sasha simply flew across the room, collapsing on a glass lounge table, rolling down the broken material, little pieces digging into his skin. He was now bleeding from every inch of his skin, unable to get up. With all this noise, it was certain that SHIELD would break into their room within 5 seconds. Sasha was still mumbling, moaning on the ground because of the pain.

“Well, that’s exactly what I was hoping to do in this room” she said in a breath.

And she kneeled down him, taking a pillow on the bed on her way, and straddled him. She applied the pillow on his head, took his gun, and shot him through the feathers. In a rush, she took everything, the backpack, her coat, and opened the window. Hopefully, she still wore her multifunctional belt. She gazed at Daria one last time.

The door was smashed open in a thunderous noise; SHIELD was indeed here. But Natasha didn’t even turn around, jumping into the void.

She was gone.

            Clint Barton had his gun pointed towards every corner of the room in quick gestures, and was to late to aim at the red-headed spy. Lowering his arms, he looked at Daria Korolieva, lying still on the floor, her forehead ripped by the bullet. There was glass everywhere, millions of pieces soaked in blood. As a part of the team went to pursue the “murderer”, Clint thought that it was useless. Moving through the room, crushing glass with his heavy boots, he saw the other body under the white pillow, stained with red. _It’s way too messy to be intended_ , he told himself. One of the remaining field agent asked him about what happened.

“We arrive way too late. Korolieva’s dead.” He looked at her face, closing her eyes carefully. “And she didn’t know a thing, apparently. Fury told me that the CIA only got one name” he pursued. “But given the state of this room, something went wrong. Russians-“ he sadly chuckled, “- are clean spies. They’d never leave a mess like this. There must have been a problem between the two of them.”

“So there’s two of them, for sure?”

“Yeah. The first one is _here_ ” he said, pointing with his chin towards the body under the pillow, “and the second one is out. Maybe they got contradictory orders, since the government seem to be falling apart. One of them was stronger than the other.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Звезда Проект" = Project Star  
> "Что вы знаете о Проекте Звезда?" = What do you know about Project Star?  
> "ебаная пизда" = fucking cunt (sorry about the strong language!)


	6. A chase

 

            Natasha was resting in her bed, white sheets blending with her medical gown. The mattress was really uncomfortable, gaunt, barely covering the plastic bed base; but at least, she could watch TV. The only problem was that she didn’t have the remote. She was thus condemned to watch _The Bold and the Beautiful,_ in which she followed the tribulations of a blonde bombshell; the question remained as to know which blonde it was.

            Her roommate, a 50-year-old woman with bleached hair, was there for appendicitis; she had been staring at the red-head because of the multiple bruises and open wounds she wore like a medal when she arrived. Natasha had then remembered to appear affected by those. The woman had asked her if she wanted to talk about it, and Natasha told her it was fine.

If everything was going well, she was supposed to be discharged today. So she patiently waited here as if she was in no hurry; as she thought about finishing the mission once outside, the doctor entered the room.

“Hello, Mrs… Rowling. I’m Dr. Spencer. With a name like yours, you must be asked autographs an awful lot!” he chuckled.

“Well, they usually know what the real one looks like. And I’m not exactly her spitting image,” Natasha joked.

“What do you mean the _real_ one?” Spencer laughed. “Anyway, I’ve come to inform you that you’re able to leave the hospital. Your wounds healed up real quick. I was quite fascinated. You must be very healthy; you have an iron constitution.”

“Don’t go overboard,” the redhead said with a shy smile.

“Well, I do hope that what or _who_ put you in such a situation won’t happen again, because that didn’t seem very legal,” the doctor said. He soon apologized, “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business, actually.”

_You have no idea._

“Don’t worry about it, I’m fine on my own,” she said, still warmly smiling. “Just show me the way out. And thanks again, doctor.”

 

            She had taken off her awful gown to put on a grey sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers; she braided her hair, like Iolotchka had taught her, and put on a little blue beanie. Her backpack still in her hand, she left after wishing a prompt recovery to her roommate. Her wounds were almost completely gone; she just needed to find a scarf to cover the marks on her neck. At least, the hospital had provided her with a temporary cover.

Barely getting out of the room, strolling through the white corridors, she heard heavy boots soles on the floor, right behind her. It amounted to approximately five or six guys. Turning right and hiding behind a wall, she briefly listened to what they had to say, just to be sure she’d have to run.

“Doctor Spencer?” one voice inquired.

“That’s me. And you are…?”

“FBI.”

_So, SHIELD._

“Is this Nora Rowling’s room?”

Upon those words, Natasha started walking again, her beanie jammed on her head. She took the longest detour to get out, just to cover the tracks.

Clint had seen that the room only counted a woman. And he felt she wasn’t really a _spy_. He thus started to speed up, walking at a quick pace. “I want you all to shut down every way out of this building. Even the higher floors. Doctor, show him the way to the control room system, we’ll need cameras.”

The blonde man then proceeded to follow the spy’s path, trying to think like her. Pushing through a crowd of doctors, nurses and patients, he tried not to look in a hurry. But he was _this close_ to catch her. The one who had killed Daria Korolieva. His hand was grasping his gun inside his jacket.

Turning right and left and right and left, he finally caught a glimpse of a what appeared to be a woman, walking peacefully, wearing a blue beanie. _Why trying to cover that pretty flaming hair, huh?_ He though to himself. Accelerating, he knew that one misstep could screw everything up. So he kept a comfortable distance, his hand still on his gun. Beanie-girl took left, and Clint followed her. When he arrived in the corridor, she wasn’t there anymore. But there were no windows, no open rooms. _For fuck’s sake_. Mentally slapping himself, Clint tried to reason himself and to act quickly. That’s when he saw a woman in a grey sweatshirt, hooded, walk past him, carrying a backpack. Taking too long to realize, he turned around at lightning speed to follow her. He was only two meters away from her. He took out his gun. And a nurse went out of a room, coming nose-to-nose with him and his weapon.

“Sorry sir, I...” she mumbled. She then saw the gun, eyes widening in fear. She let out a loud gasp, soon drawing everyone’s attention.

Clint tried to remain calm. Then he raised his voice.

“Move out!”

Everything sped up from this point; people in the corridor were getting out of the way, stuck against the walls, and the blonde man was running to get to the hooded figure, his gun in his hand. She had managed to slip in between elevator doors, where two nurses were waiting, wearing their blue and white working clothes. The doors had just closed in front of Clint. He immediately took left to race down the stairs that led to the main hall; feeling his pulse rate increase and his heart thumping, he didn’t even look at the stairs. Pressing his earpiece violently, he barked an order.

“Control room, give me the west-wing elevator’s situation! Now!”

“A hooded woman was in it, but she shot the cameras. We don’t know the state of the nurses with her.”

“ _Shit_!!!”

He kept on rushing down the stairs, eventually bursting open the door and arriving in the hall. It was crowded with people; Clint tried to spot the elevator, maneuvering through the crowd. He rushed towards the elevator, unable to see because of the crowd if anyone had got out of it alive. Arriving in front of the lift, he pressed the button to open the doors. The two nurses were on the floor, unconscious apparently, one of them stripped of her medical jacket, thus only wearing a white t-shirt. Her hair-protecting cap was also missing. Clint called for medical help, straightening up, and pressed his earpiece, sighing.

“Everyone, look for a nurse wearing a medical jacket, a protecting cap with red hair and jeans.” But he didn’t believe at all what he was instructing. Once you lost the occasion to catch her, she only reappeared weeks later. She was like some goddamn fish swimming through the mesh of the net. _Fury is gonna fucking kill me_ , he thought.

 

Natasha got out of the hospital, slowly walking down the streets, taking off her cap and her blue jacket to throw them down a trashcan. She stopped in a shop to buy a thick grey scarf and an aquamarine beret, and pursued her path. Now that SHIELD was after her, she had far less freedom to act and complete her mission. Yes, Korolieva was dead, even if it wasn’t part of the plan. But she had to find James Cosner. She could only count on herself. He was the reason Korolieva died - _because of Sasha_ , she told herself- and thus was investigating on USSR’s project, the _Zviezda Proiekt_ , of which she was a part. _That’s funny,_ she thought, _the “Star Project”. Those girls were supposed to be “des danseuses étoiles”, the highest position you could hold in a theater as dancers. And now look at us. We’re falling stars. Falling, falling down darkness’ maw._

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the JK Rowling joke is intended, since she was getting famous in the 90s...   
> Also, "danseuse étoile" is french for star ballerina I think, it's a little reference to the word "zvezda" which literally means "star"... :)


	7. A party

“Natalie! It’s your name, right?”

 

Natasha turned around in order to face her interlocutor. She was wearing a black tight-fitting dress, falling under the knee, with a sweetheart neckline. She admitted that she gave everything with that dress, relying on men’s stupid gross instincts to get what she needed. She had no expensive jewelry, and was just perched on black stilettos; and she had one dream: to take those awful shoes off.

The man who had called for her was dark-haired, with angular features and a prominent jaw. But outside of his tough face, his proportions were weird, as if his body was scrawny compared to the rest. He was kind of ugly. She knew him well, and he did not; it was James Cosner. He ran to her, stopping one meter away from her.

“Is that right? Natalie? Natalie Rawls, if I’m not mistaken.”

Natasha gave a playful smile. “That’s me. Unless there are two of us in here.”

“I don’t think it could ever happen,” he answered with a smile.

 _You’re unique, blah blah blah, and that’s why I want to take you out for dinner_. The red-head was anticipating a little, but in a nutshell, she had it all figured out.

“Erm, how can I say that without being weird… You seem very conscientious in your work. I admire that.”

“I’m barely the secretary, my work is not that hard,” she answered, always wearing that fake interested smile.

“Without you, we scientists would have trouble to schedule our conferences, classes and all… So please, brag about your job. You’re the backbone of this university, after all.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit excessive?” she chirped.

“Never. Especially not when a clerk like you could as well be a model. I’m sorry, I hope I’m not being inappropriate,” he added. 

She pretended to look down a little, falsely embarrassed and at the same time falsely flattered. Then she glanced at him through her eyelashes, her green eyes overlooked by her well-defined brows. Classic, but works every time.

“It’s fine, what would be inappropriate about a man complementing a woman?”

Cosner smiled. “Actually, I was pretending not to know your name, because I didn’t want to come off as a stalker.” He punctuated his sentence with a shameful laugh. “Please don’t think I’m weird, but I’ve seen you around a lot for a long time, and I’ve always wanted to chat with you. Will a coffee with me be alright?”

Natasha was still smiling, but not for the same reasons as Cosner. She yet again pretended to be embarrassed but flattered, clutching her files in an “adorable” way, but still looking attractive enough, and answered. “I’ll be thrilled to have a drink with you. So we can talk about a secretary’s tribulations and the busy life of an academic.”

Cosner was very pleased. He added: “And while I’m at it and you still haven’t declined my offer, I’d like to ask you if you’d accompany me at the University gala soon.”

“I’d be thrilled to do that too.”

***

 

The party took place in a huge library, arranged especially for the occasion; between gigantic ornamented walls, a wooden-floored hall had been transformed into a ballroom, overlooked by an impressive crystal-made chandelier, hanging at the center of the room, projecting a soft and warm light that undulated on the parquet. All around were disposed long tables, covered by white sheets, filled with delicious dishes, aperitifs and drinks. The ballroom was already crowded; the whole academic community had gathered in here.

Natasha felt out of place. _No_. _I’m never out of place. I’m always right where I need to be_. But she couldn’t repress a feeling of illness, or at least discomfort in this world to which she didn’t belong. But no one had to know that; and soon, she would play her latest role, and earn her place in this world. As she always tied her hair up in a bun when she was “working”, she had decided to let it cascade over her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing a bright red lipstick, but a heavy makeup on her eyes, making them smoky and cat-like, circled by a black eyeliner. She had chosen a simple navy-blue dress, coming up high to the neck but revealing from behind her muscled back; and to crown it all, she had slipped on a pair of open high-heels, with a dark blue ankle strap. Natasha had found herself rather attractive, and was pleased with the result.

Clutching her purse, she waited in the hall for Cosner. He arrived in a tuxedo, took her arm, and led her to the ballroom. Needless to say that he was stunned by Natasha’s appearance.

People were apparently eager to dance the waltz, like in the old days, and the red-head found that a bit ridiculous. She was picking a few toasts and a champagne glass when Cosner went up to her.

“My lady, would you grant me the greatest pleasure and honor by accepting to dance with me?” he said while imagining himself as a prince. He held out his hand like in the movies. Natasha found that deeply stupid.

“Well, I have two left feet, but I can try for you.”

They went to the center of the room, to Natasha’s great displeasure. Holding a respectable distance with Cosner, her hand on his shoulder, she slowly but surely got closer to have what she wanted.

“We’re looking pretty good, I bet,” the man boasted.

“I hope.” She then feigned realization with a gasp. “Oh no.”

“What is it?”

“I forgot to tidy up some files at the office before I left. God, what an idiot!” she exclaimed while facepalming.

“Don’t worry about it. Are those files belonging to a teacher? Maybe I can help you.”

“Actually, those are… your files. That’s what they told me,” she said, biting her lip. “They told me to be careful with them, but now that I think about it, they didn’t tell me where to put them. Could you tell me where you store them?”

Cosner chuckled. “If I was not so spellbound, I would have believed that you want to rob me. Don’t worry, you’ll put them in my office tomorrow. It’s a special drawer underneath the computer, you’ll put them on top of it.”

Natasha glanced at him gracefully, and thanked him, adding that she didn’t want to lose her job.

“You won’t. Now let’s dance.”

Cosner pulled her closer, his hand down her back. He was awfully close, and the fact that the dress had an open back made it even worse. As his face was drawing nearer, this awful jaw of his facing Natasha’s head, the music stopped. Everyone applauded, and took a break to drink and eat. At that moment, a man appeared behind Cosner.

“Mister Cosner, it’s me, Daniel Cram!” a wailing voice said. It belonged to a little man. “I’m sorry to interrupt you in such a good company, but I have to tell you about the partnership between our universities for research. Madam, if you will, I’ll give him back to you in a minute.”

Natasha gave an understanding smile, and nodded her head. Cosner let his eyes linger on her face and her body for a moment, before leaving with Cram.

 

The red-head had never felt lighter than at this very moment; she felt free from Cosner’s claws, and his unbearable gaze that made her feel like a piece of ham, or like an expensive ivory sculpture observed by amateurs. _God, I‘m never doing that again_. At least, she now had the location of Cosner’s most important files; she just had to crack the drawer’s code -with intellect or force- and look for whatever marks of the _Zvezda Proiekt_ this man could have. Then, she’ll do her job. It was the only way she could justify Sasha’s murder to the KGB.

Pulling back her red hair, Natasha headed toward the food tables. She also needed a drink stronger than this _fucking fuzzy cat piss_ , also called champagne; it’s not that she despised it, but right now she wanted to drown her discomfort in alcohol. As she walked towards the white-sheeted tables, a couple stood in her way. By the time she got around them, a silhouette materialized in front of her, blocking her again. Except that this time, she didn’t pass by him.

She knew this man. Of course she did. Wearing a black suit, his jacket nonchalantly open, revealing his white shirt deprived of cufflinks, tie or pin, he had his hair styled as sloppy as the rest of his look. He did have nice shoes, though. It was the SHIELD agent tracking her since the Korolieva incident, Clint Barton.

“Shall we dance?”

Natasha stood still, feet rooted in the ground, and said nothing. Barton expected that.

“I’ve got no microphones on me, I swear. I already don’t like the tux, so imagine if I stuck a recorder in it.” Despite looking like a trashy neglected hobo, Natasha knew that he had the advantage in this kind of situation; so she complied and played along his game.

The music resumed, and they began to dance. Natasha was leading since Barton moved like a tree branch. “You sure are good at dancing, Natalie. Or is it Nora? _Or_ , it’s Nicole.”

Natasha slid her hand behind his neck. “Careful, a broken neck happens so fast. And I’ll make it look like a cardiac arrest.”

“Hm, you’d better not get too tactile with me, your fiancé is watching us,” he hummed. “So, tough job? I mean, secretary.”

“If you’re going to talk business, do it already and quit playing games.”

“So you call espionage and defector assassination _business_? You must be one hell of working-girl.”

Natasha moved her hand from his shoulder so she could clutch the nerve behind his elbow, a pressure point. But Barton was quicker for once and threw off her hand, catching it back to keep on dancing. “Please, don’t put an end to this wonderful dance so soon. We’ve just begun.”

“I’m surprised you reacted fast enough, for once.”

“I’m full of surprises. Speaking of which, why have you killed Korolieva? She knew nothing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ _Come on_ , you said yourself that you wanted to talk business.”

Natasha sighed. In any case, nothing she was going to say about that would be new to SHIELD. However, Barton could maybe give her some interesting info. Or maybe she would lead him on the wrong track so she wouldn’t be bothered. Both would be ideal.

“Korolieva already knew too much, so my colleague killed her. Not agreeing with him, I killed him in my turn.”

“ _Wow_. Did you have many colleagues after that?”

“Your guess. You can look for them if you want.”

“So you can do your own thing? No thanks,” he stated.

“My turn to ask questions,” the red-head shot. “Why are you clinging to Cosner when other KGB spies have been traced in London? You need to realign your priorities, Mr. Barton.”

“Mmm, maybe there are, but you’re the most important thing right now. Please don’t be flattered,” he deadpanned.

“I’m barely a black widow that extorts money to finance other missions in the country,” she lied. “The Korolieva incident was an accident. I’ve been given orders about fleecing Cosner and his friends and check the academic field.”

“For a man-eater, you’re pretty good at beating the crap out of men. Not eating them.”

“Please don’t say gross things like that, Mr. Barton.”

“ _Please_ , call me Clint. I feel like we’re going to be great friends. Or at least we’ll meet often.”

He took some distance, letting go of Natasha’s hand. “Anyway, I guess you’re aware that SHIELD is after you. But I studied your case, and I think that if you don’t want to get caught, you won’t. If you change your mind, know that you’re welcome among us Americans.”

“Not even in your dreams.”

“And please know as well that KGB sent another wave of freshly genetically manipulated spies, and that might have to do with your erratic career. You’re a lab rat, but you’re still not docile enough, right?”

And after glancing at the red-head with a smirk, Barton disappeared in the crowd. When Natasha turned around, she found herself back into familiar claws.

“Who was this guy?” Cosner hissed. “You know him?”

“It’s an old friend. Why, you’re jealous?”

Cosner unclenched his jaw, relaxing a little. “I’m just kidding. But you did look close though.”

“I said he’s a friend,” she asserted. “Actually, I’m feeling a bit down, I think I should go home.”

“You’re already leaving?”

“Yeah, I’m unwell. I need to rest.”

Cosner didn’t even hide his disappointment. And Natasha didn’t care. As she told him goodbye, he insisted on driving her back home. She told him to stay, have fun, drink, laugh, but nothing could get her rid of him. So she accepted. Fortunately, Cosner still had some respect left, and let her get home without trying to sleep with her. It was probably for another day, she thought. _Except that day was not going to happen_. She’d pack her things tonight, would head to the office and do what she had to do. The worst that could happen to her would be the man that trained her in the Red Room. If he was in America, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm hm hm Clintasha is coming.

**Author's Note:**

> I chose to focus on Natasha's backstory but from my point of view only; I don't have an expensive knowledge on the Black Widow comics, so this is my sole interpretation of her past. Also, I love Clintasha and though the story will focus more on Natasha, they'll be a big part of it... 
> 
> Feel free to tell me if there are any grammar or vocabulary mistakes!


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